Invisible (18 page)

The craziest thing is the constant
deluge of death threats. I don’t understand why people want to hurt me; I’m a
decent human being who’s done nothing wrong. But they don’t seem to think of me
as a person…

Why can’t people leave me
alone? Well, because the press won’t let them forget about me and Daryl, I
suppose. Journalists are everywhere, all the time – not that they can currently
write much about me because they’ll be in contempt of court right now if they
put too much about the case. Peter assures me that this is the calm before the
storm and that things will be worse after the trial, but I’m not worried about
that; after the trial, when Daryl’s home again, I’ll want to tell our story
anyway, so that the world can know the hell this innocent man’s been through.

I’ve learnt a new technique
to help with sleeping, incidentally. I turn one pillow sideways so it lies
alongside me, and I put my arm over it, as if it’s Daryl’s chest. Tragic, isn’t
it, pretending I’ve got my arms around my husband. At least I’m now managing
about three hours’ sleep a night, on and off.
Still not
enough.
I still feel wide-eyed and on the edge. But at least I don’t
feel like I’m literally going mental any more. Well, not so much, anyway.

The
moment of truth couldn’t be put off any longer; today I had to go back to work.
I’m exhausted from being a figure of so much hate. No one could look me in the
eye, and yet everyone was staring at me the minute they thought my back was
turned. No one spoke to me, yet I was the only topic of conversation. As for my
boss, he danced around me like a barefoot tourist hopping across hot sand at
the beach.

I
may have to quit. I can’t afford to quit. I really, really want to quit.

Kim
wasn’t even there. I didn’t ask where she was because that would have involved
talking to someone and the prospect was way too awkward. I want to contact Kim,
she if she’s okay, but the fact she hasn’t been in touch with me speaks
volumes. I’m hurt by the way mates have dumped me but in a weird way I’m not
that surprised – but I did expect more from Kim. And knowing there was just one
friendly face in the office would have made the day tolerable.

As
it was it felt like torture. Every single second seemed to last forever, I’d glance
at the clock constantly and be stunned that just a minute had passed by, and I
couldn’t even kill time by making a cuppa because the kitchen became a no-go
area. I’d walk into it and conversation would be killed instantly, everyone
disappearing like mist so that I was left alone, feeling even more awkward than
before.

At
lunchtime, unable to eat because my stomach was churning too much, I wound up
walking the streets around the office. Even that didn’t feel like escape
though; I felt exposed and scared that someone would recognise me from the
news, so scuttled along, head down and my shoulders tense around my ears. At
least I had the protection officers with me, trailing along behind, to make me
feel safer.

I
don’t think I did a
jot
of work either. I couldn’t
concentrate, paranoia sapped all my energy. I don’t know about resigning, at
this rate I might be sacked.

Thank
God for Mum and Dad though. It was good to get home to friendly faces, and Mum
had done a lovely roast chicken. I could get used to that treatment, and
managed to eat a good few mouthfuls.

But
as I tucked in Dad cleared his throat, which is always a precursor to him
saying something he isn’t looking forward to.

‘We’re
going to have to go back home tomorrow, love,’ he said.

‘It’s
Dad’s job,’ added Mum. ‘We don’t want to leave you, but your father has to get
back to work, like you have.’

I
swallowed, the chicken almost sticking in my suddenly dry throat, and forced a
smile. ‘It’s fine, honestly. I don’t expect you to stay here forever. We’ve all
got to try to get on with life until, well, Daryl’s released and we can really
get back to normal.’

Normal.
What’s that? It seems so long ago that I honestly don’t seem able to remember.

Tues
4

Kim
called late last night! She’d heard through the gossip grapevine that I’d been
into work and about the wall of silence that had met me. It was so good to hear
a friendly voice, I’ve been feeling very isolated and abandoned since, well,
everything.

She
asked about me and Daryl, of course, and what could I say? That it’s all
horrific but we’re trying to stay strong for each other? Nothing I say can
cover it, so that’s pretty much all I said. Instead I wanted to hear all about
her.

‘I’m
all right,’ she replied. But I could tell from her voice she wasn’t. Eager to
hear about anything to take my mind off my own troubles, I pushed her for more
info. Finally she caved.

‘It’s
Sam,’ she sighed. ‘He’s been back on the scene, making a nuisance of himself. I
shouldn’t be burdening you with all this
though,
you’ve enough on your plate. That’s why I haven’t been in touch sooner though;
I’ve been trying to deal with all this.’

‘Well
what do you
mean,
he’s back on the scene?
In what way?’
Then I gasped in horror as a thought occurred
to me. ‘You’re not back together are you?’

‘No!
God, no! But I thought he’d gone forever; he took it so well when we split and
he moved out that I should have known I hadn’t heard the last of him though…
You know what, honestly, you don’t need to hear about this.’

‘Tell
me!’ I demanded. It’s amazing, the restorative powers of hearing about someone
else’s problems. That sounds awful, and I don’t mean it as if I’m enjoying it,
just that I suddenly felt more awake, more connected with the world again than
I had in a long time. I felt needed and human again, I suppose. Maybe this was
a problem I could actually help solve, instead of feeling like a useless piece
of flotsam.

‘Okay…he
broke in the other night.’ She was trying to sound matter of fact, but her
voice cracked just a little. ‘I woke up and just knew someone was in the room.
I flicked on my bedside lamp and he was standing there, staring at me.’

‘What
did he want?’ I whispered.

‘H-he
wanted me. He was raving on about how he wanted me back, couldn’t live without
me. Then he…’

My
heart pounded as I waited for her to explain. Had he hurt her? Forced
himself
on her? She seemed to read my mind.

‘He
pulled out a knife. I thought he was going to kill me and Henry, and I was just
frozen to the bed, too scared to defend myself. He stepped towards me…then slit
his wrists.
Said again and again that he couldn’t live
without me.’

‘So
what happened then?’ I wondered.

‘He
burst into tears. He wasn’t a threat any more as he stood there like a little
boy, all sobbing and snotty, and falling to his knees to beg me to take him
back. I called an ambulance and the police, and they took him away. He hadn’t
even cut himself properly, they were just scratches,
it
was all for drama and show…

‘That
was just after Daryl was arrested, and I’ve been sorting out an injunction to
keep him away forever; in fact, your solicitor, Peter Simpson, has been helping
me a lot and giving me advice. I contacted him because you seemed so impressed
with him and the way he put you at ease.’

‘Well,
I’m glad I’ve helped somehow, even without knowing it,’ I smiled, relieved. I’m
so, so glad she’s finally seen what we all could have told her a long time ago;
that Sam is a proper, full on, looney tunes nutter. Why couldn’t she have seen
it earlier?

‘Are
you sleeping okay after all that?’ I asked.

She
gave a wry laugh. ‘Not so great.
You?’

‘Bloody
awful,’ I smiled back.
‘Listen,
if you’re awake in the
small hours, feeling a bit crazy and lonely, just call me. I’ll be awake. I’m
always awake.’

She
said she might just take me up on that. I hope she does. There is no lonelier
time than the hours between 3am and 4am. Everyone in the world seems to be
asleep and peaceful but you. That’s how I always feel, anyway, and it’s when
the worst thoughts stalk me: will Daryl ever get
out,
is he really innocent, will someone somehow get into the house and hurt me…?

Anyway,
today I endured another day of being ignored and hated at work. Shame Kim chose
this week to take off as holiday, but never mind; simply knowing I still had
one friend in the world made things a little easier to deal with.

On
the way home I remembered I needed some milk. To be honest I need quite a few
things but I couldn’t face the supermarket and I’m not exactly eating a lot
right now anyway so… I nipped to the corner shop for the first time since,
well, the arrest. Mum and Dad have been getting bits in for me. Anyway, just
like the good old days, I walked into the shop and the bell over the door
tinged.
Ric
looked up, usual smile on his face…which
rapidly slid away when he saw me.

Still,
I grabbed the milk and went to the counter smiling hesitantly, proffering a
couple of quid.

‘It’s
gone up,’ he said.

‘Oh,
right,’ I said, flustered. ‘The,
er
, the price says
£1.50 still.’

‘It’s
gone up.’ This time he folded his arms, set his head back a little so he seemed
to be looking down his nose at me.

‘How
much?’
I asked,
digging around in my purse.

‘More
than you can afford, lady.’

My
insides seemed to solidify into something cold and hard, but my mouth babbled
on. ‘I’ve a tenner in here somewhere, that
be
enough?’

I
meant it too, I’d actually have paid £10 just to get this awful episode over,
and get the hell out of there with the milk.

Ric
shook his head.

The
thought of leaving without the milk seemed too mortifying to contemplate, so I
tried again. ‘Come on
Ric
, please, I’ve been coming
here for years, you know me…’

‘I
don’t want your kind in here, lady.’ He said it slowly, deliberately, as if I
were a child.

The
shop bell gave a cheery ting again that was totally at odds with the
atmosphere. I couldn’t look away from
Ric
though, nor
he me. His eyes didn’t leave mine even as he spoke to whoever was behind me:
‘Don’t worry, this person was just leaving.’

I
held his gaze for another beat, then hung my head and scurried to the door,
feeling sick to my stomach.

I am
hated. I am vilified. I am utterly rejected. That person who wrote the graffiti
got it right: I am scum.

I
ran home, tears streaming down my face so fast I could barely see. Hands
shaking, I shoved the key in the door, desperate to get inside, then slammed it
shut and leaned heavily against it, hysterical now. Crying so hard I could
barely breathe, the sobs that racked my whole body sounded like an asthmatic
donkey as I sank to the floor and curled up on the Welcome mat. It was 15
minutes before I could move, and then it was only to reach up and put the chain
and bolt across.

It
may be stiflingly hot and stuffy inside, it may be inescapable because it is
surrounded by journalists, it may be in danger of being blown up or something, but
this house is the only place I feel safe now.

Monday
17

Even
the worst time of your life becomes mundane eventually. I visit Daryl twice a
week, plus receive two letters from him and get a call every single night
without fail. In some ways we have more contact than when he was working and
life was normal.

Conversation
between us is often awkward though. There’s not much to say. His life never
changes, his daily routine remains a constant – the most exciting thing to
happen to him is that he decided to try a different brand of body spray, so now
he doesn’t even smell like he used to. And I can’t tell him about my life:
money worries, death threats, aching loneliness. We avoid talking about the
future, terrified we’ll jinx it, and he refuses to discuss the trial, which is
frustrating but he thinks he’s stopping me from worrying about it by pretending
it isn’t happening. I don’t feel in a position to argue and therefore add to
his own worries; I want to stay upbeat and cheer him along his way somehow.
Often we end up talking about telly programmes.

I’ve
got used to seeing the plain clothes police officers outside my house all the
time, and bring them a cuppa every morning when I make my own brew. I know all
their names now, and although I wouldn’t even remotely say we’re friends we are
friendly. I know Terry (PC Cole) is getting married in two months’ time; Luke
(PC Christie) is waiting anxiously for a call about his baby daughter arriving
because his girlfriend is due to go into labour any day now; and
Senga
(PC Wallace) is just buying a house. The only one who
doesn’t say anything beyond the professional is PC Derek
Yeoh
,
but he’s nice enough really.

The
journalists seem to have got bored, as one day I opened my curtains and they
weren’t there
any more
.

Work’s
a worry though. No one is talking to me still; no surprise there. I just keep
my head down and try to get on with it. Keeping busy is the best way through
the day. But I’m not doing a brilliant job, to be honest, because I do have
problems concentrating and at inopportune times I’ll realise I’ve drifted off
and started worrying about Daryl or money or if someone will go through with
their threat of planting a bomb under my car and blowing me to smithereens.

As a
result, Keith has given me an official warning. It was done in a very touchy
feely, caring and sharing way where he pretended to be worried about me, but I
could tell that he’d be relieved to be rid of me. I expect I’m quite bad for
office morale…

I
wish I could feel, even just for a moment, normal again. I wish I could stop
the churning worry in my stomach, and the fears rattling round and round my
head. The only thing keeping me going is that eventually this will end, Daryl
will be home and life will be normal again. Everyone who has given us a hard
time will realise their awful mistake.

The
one and only person who
has
stood by me is Kim. She’s
been fantastic. Often I’ll text her at 3am, asking if she’s awake, and she
almost always is. Then she’ll ring me and we’ll chat for ages about how crap
life is, or exchange advice on how to keep going.